


Indelibility of Allegiance

by actonbell



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Sub Jarvis, Top Howard, Under-negotiated Kink, the playing fields of Eton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 17:08:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10495641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actonbell/pseuds/actonbell
Summary: Howard was familiar with this kind of gesture, how it went further than a touch on the arm or even the wrist but stopped short of tracing lips or cupping someone's face. It was an invitation that asked for further intimacies while granting them in return. Howard had seen this bold-and-hesitant move many times, in pubs, in dives, in darkened movie theatres, in quite a lot of hotel rooms, but not on this side of the Atlantic from a British soldier. Jarvis increased the pressure of his hold, not quite tugging but pulling Howard in, slowly, slowly, and if Howard had been less drunk, he would've probably said they should go to sleep, and if he'd been more drunk, he might have been asleep already, but he'd hit the golden sweet spot where all inhibitions dropped away and he was still in enough control of his body to fully enjoy that. The place where everyWhyturned effortlessly intoWhy not?





	

_Forsan et haec olim memenisse juvabit._ \- St Cyprian's school motto

 

"You did _what,"_   Howard said again, voice flat, too terrified and enraged to sound angry. Jarvis stood slumped in front of him, his posture making him a different person -- someone beaten and defeated, but that couldn't be right, Jarvis never gave up -- and from the smell of him he'd stopped off at a pub or two on the way back to Howard's Savoy suite. Howard didn't know this man, didn't like this man, half-drunk, in creased and stained civilian clothes, utterly unfamiliar.

"For the third and, I hope, final, time," Jarvis snapped back, voice still crisp and precise except for a slight elongation in his vowels as if they were tilting off-kilter, "I stole a letter of transit, forged the general's signature, and filed the pa -- "

"You filed the papers, yeah, yeah, that's what did it. Jesus. Jesus. Okay. I know you're smarter than this. A _dog_ is smarter than this. What the fuck were you _thinking?"_ Howard got up and sat down again, too panicked to pace, near complete despair. He knew there was an angle, there was a catch, there was a crack in the wall, there was some fucking way he could work this thing, there always was, but right now the word _treason_ was filling up his brain and blotting everything else out. He'd been fighting it the past half-hour, ever since Jarvis had reeled into the room two hours late for dinner and said "I'm to be arrested tomorrow," but he could feel his nerves starting to crack.

"I was _thinking_ of Ana!" Jarvis shouted at him, all fury and sarcasm. "Perhaps you do remember her? The woman I love? Who is at present trapped in _hell,_ which I could save her from with a bloody _piece of paper,_ which my _superior_ keeps locked in a safe that resides not twenty feet from where I habitually sit -- "

"Jesus, fucking Jesus _Christ,_ just shut the fuck up. Shut up. We need to be smart about this." But it wasn't possible to think clearly, not when Jarvis was convinced he was about to hang and was most of the way in the bag to boot. Tomorrow he'd find a way out of this, and if he didn't find one he could damn well make one, same difference. "God. God, _God._ \-- We have to get drunk," he said with absolute certainty. "Very, very drunk. To begin with. You already made a decent start, good job. But just like always, I have the good stuff." Legs feeling numb, he made it over to the liquor cabinet, crouched in front of the locked door, and after some fumbling liberated the unopened bottle of single malt. He left the door open, key dangling -- if they were lucky one bottle would be enough for tonight. Jarvis was still slouched over, hands deep in his pockets, staring holes through the very expensive carpet. Howard shoved a glass at him. "Take this and sit down, for Chrissakes." Jarvis arched one eyebrow but stalked over to a matched set of leather club chairs in front of a long mirror-polished coffee table, dropped down into one and put his feet up on the wood, nearly knocking over a china vase. Howard moved it to the far end of the table, put the bottle down heavily in its place, drained his glass and sat down to pour another one.

That was how he'd seen his father drink, when he drank to get drunk, steadily, not gulping, not even hurrying, just one long draw, another one, maybe one more and then reach for the bottle again. He held out his hand without looking, snapping his fingers impatiently, for Jarvis's glass, and didn't expect him to keep up, but to his surprise they were pretty well-matched, although Jarvis did mutter about how the last time he'd been forced to drink all this much at once was in Russia. They didn't talk, or look over at one another -- Howard caught glances of Jarvis's long fingers around his glass, around the bottle, holding a cigarette he'd apparently forgotten to light. "Here," he said roughly, digging his black Zippo out of a pocket, and knocked Jarvis's hand with the back of his own to make him put the cigarette to his lips. Jarvis started -- he couldn't already be that far gone, could he? -- and Howard sighed and reached out to steady Jarvis's hand as he lit the cigarette and Jarvis drew in the smoke. Howard's grip was harder than he meant it to be and he patted Jarvis's knuckles in apology before pulling away. He stared down at the table, which could have been a still-life in a cafe -- glasses with tiny amber beads of moisture at the bottom, the open bottle, wet rings on the wood, already some flecks of ash -- and then absent-mindedly moved the china vase back so Jarvis could use it as an ashtray and not burn the place down before the Germans did.

He said, "Tell me about the first time you met Ana." Jarvis had already told him maybe two or three times; he wasn't one of those insufferable men who went around detailing every moment of romantic bliss, but he loved the story, and Howard loved it too. Hell, the general had loved it. Jarvis was silent, and Howard glared over at him, his eyes already feeling bleary, out of focus. _Good._ "Unless you want to go out and get your own booze."

Jarvis sighed, a long shaky sound, and poured himself another drink. "I was in 'Pest," he began. "On a....I had an important meeting." Howard wondered, not for the first time, how much of Jarvis's duties overlapped between espionage, air attaché and aide-de-camp, but he kept quiet. "I couldn't -- I was in mufti, but it had to be high class, you understand." Howard nodded as if he hadn't heard this detail before, turning his glass in between his fingers. "I had a silk tie. A _very_ expensive one." Howard's glance dropped to Jarvis's throat -- that was one reason he had looked so wrong, his collar was open and he wasn't wearing a tie at all. "I was nervous, about the....meeting, and perhaps I'd snagged it on something once already and hadn't noticed, but my fingernail caught and bent back -- hurt like the dickens -- and I ripped this terrible long run, it looked like a scratch, all along the front. It wasn't patterned," he told Howard, "but even if it had been, it wouldn't have been acceptable. I knew anything I thought of doing would likely just make it worse, so I went down to the -- "

Howard shook his head. "It was a very fancy hotel," he prompted.

Jarvis was silent a moment, then snorted lightly and said, "Quite. It was a very fancy hotel -- since I wasn't paying for it -- and I'd noticed earlier, there was a tailor shop off the lobby, for just this sort of thing -- quick repairs, replacement ties and socks, even minor mending, if you gave them enough time." Howard nodded, gratified. "As well as keepsakes, handkerchiefs monogrammed with the name of the hotel, that sort of thing. And they had a _very_ lovely girl, perhaps to enhance the appeal of monogrammed handkerchiefs to lonely businessmen. I ran into the shop and said I was terribly sorry, but I was in a dreadful hurry, and I knew she probably couldn't repair the tie in time -- and she unknotted it, I'd been afraid to take it off even, and she said no, it would take a short while, but she thought she had a tie of about the same quality that would go with my suit, and in fact it seemed much better and I said so and that I'd take it. I asked her to...." He swallowed hard. "Tie it around my neck, for good luck, and she did, and when I got back later she'd done some kind of miracle job reweaving the fabric, where the silk had snagged -- turned out she wasn't just a lovely and informative salesgirl, she was a very accomplished seamstress, and had even designed some of the shop items, including....the one I was wearing. And..."

His head fell back against the leather back of the chair, so heavily padded there was no sound, and stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight.

Howard poured both of them another round, noticing with interest his fingers felt thickened and clumsy but, as always, he was able to measure and pour out accurately without spilling. "Do you still have that tie?" he asked suddenly -- he'd never thought of this before. "The one she sold you?"

Jarvis shook his head, and knocked back his drink with a grim efficiency that would have impressed Howard's old gang back in the LES. "The last time I saw her," he said, enunciating carefully, "I gave it to her, to keep it for me....I told her she could put it on again, when we...." He didn't cry, his eyes didn't really look wet, that wasn't like a Brit. But they got a certain steely shine Howard had seen in Peggy's, as if any weakness was merely a signal to appear even stronger, invulnerable if possible. He'd known hard cases all his life but the Brits were something else.

"We'll get her back for you," Howard said. "All right? We'll get her out. You know me, I'll think of something. Anything." _Treason, good fucking God._ "I gotta admit this time you've posed me a little bit of a stumper, pal. But it's all right. I'll figure it out. Just let me be best man, that's all, and pick the bridesmaids."

"I appreciate....everything you've done for me, Howard," Jarvis said in a hollow, careful voice, like he was already making out his fucking will. "I know you've....I wish we could have gone on working together."

"Okay, Jesus, no, for you that's like me singing 'My Wild Irish Rose' which happens never. I'm cutting us off. We'll go to sleep -- no, you're staying here, you'll be lucky if you can make it across the floor -- tomorrow we'll wake up, we'll....figure something out. Something. Come on." Howard left the bottle and glasses where they were but, with the care of someone brought up in a tenement, checked to make sure Jarvis's cigarette was long gone out, then stood up and held out his hand. "Come on, don't want you falling and hitting your head....there, good." Jarvis sprang up out of the deep chair, with only a slight wobble and overcorrection. Howard put his arm around him nevertheless and guided him into the bedroom; the blackout drapes were already drawn and a small lamp was lit by the bedside, hardly more than a candle.

"Just aim for the beacon, there we go. Can you take off your own shoes? Something I never liked, taking off someone else's shoes." He knew he was babbling to cover Jarvis's funereal silence, but couldn't really stop. Jarvis did manage to wrestle out of his own clothes and shoes -- he was wearing y-fronts and what was either a singlet or a vest, Howard couldn't remember which. He felt a little embarrassed by his silk briefs, and thought about leaving his dress shirt on, but the room was warm and the laundry maids hated him already. At least he'd worn a plain cotton undershirt. He enthusiastically boxed the pillows on his side ("You're no Ruby Goldstein," his father used to tsk) and glanced over at Jarvis, who was staring at him, right as he meant to snap off the light.

"What? See anything green?"

Jarvis shook his head, but kept looking up at Howard -- he was lying flat on the bed, and Howard had raised himself up to get the light. Jarvis reached out, achingly slow, and touched the side of Howard's neck lightly, over his pulse point. Howard was familiar with this kind of gesture, how it went further than a touch on the arm or even the wrist but stopped short of tracing lips or cupping someone's face. It was an invitation that asked for further intimacies while granting them in return. Howard had seen this bold-and-hesitant move many times, in pubs, in dives, in darkened movie theatres, in quite a lot of hotel rooms, but not on this side of the Atlantic from a British soldier. Jarvis increased the pressure of his hold, not quite tugging but pulling Howard in, slowly, slowly, and if Howard had been less drunk, he would've probably said they should go to sleep, and if he'd been more drunk, he might have been asleep already, but he'd hit the golden sweet spot where all inhibitions dropped away and he was still in enough control of his body to fully enjoy that. The place where every _Why_ turned effortlessly into _Why not?_

He let Jarvis pull him down to his mouth for a gentle closed-mouth kiss, questioning but inviting, and then kissed Jarvis back much more thoroughly, rolling over on top of him and sliding down into place as Jarvis opened his legs. He put his hands on either side of Jarvis's face, thumbs along his jawline; they both reeked of scotch and Jarvis had gone too long without shaving, there were stiff bristles along his cheeks and chin and God, he felt amazing, sharp angles under warm skin, his whole body slim but hard with muscle. As he rolled his hips against Jarvis, the bed -- the _room_ \-- tilted some, he didn't know how well he could perform right now, but _God,_ it was good, so good. He held Jarvis's face tighter and sucked on his tongue, bit at his mouth, felt Jarvis's fingers curve up around his ribs and dig in. "What do you want?" he asked, only it came out more demanding. Jarvis stared up at him, lips open and flushed red. Howard curled his fingers in the short hair at the back of Jarvis's head and tugged, just to get his attention, and Jarvis gasped. "What?"

Jarvis swallowed hard, cheeks flushed, and said, almost too quiet to hear, "You could -- fuck me, if you want," and Howard's breath hissed in, at the idea and at his proper British voice saying the word. "It's been a long -- at school, we used to -- I need it, need _something,_ it's been so long, I just need....not to think, not to think about what's going to happen. Not to be afraid." His voice cracked on the last word, which promptly shut him up. Howard nodded and kissed him again, grinding into him to hear the low soft sound he made.

"Well, some genius had us drink enough to float the _Queen Mary_ but I'll see what I can do," he said, and bent his head and bit Jarvis's neck hard, feeling his hips jolt up under Howard's. He kissed the skin soothingly, running his tongue over the dents his teeth had made, then rolled on his side and began pulling Jarvis's underwear down, slapping lightly at his hands when Jarvis tried to do the same to him. Jarvis was getting hard, but for right now Howard ignored that, pulled his undershirt up over his head and then moved back to look for a moment, running his hands along Jarvis's slender, strong arms, glancing down at his long legs, all that pale skin -- and a long cock, too, even at half-mast. Howard wanted badly to just suck on it, like he always did when he saw a guy filling out, but he thought that probably wasn't what Jarvis needed right now -- the poor bastard wanted to be taken out of himself, forget he could feel or think, and from what he'd let slip Howard thought he knew how to get there pretty fast. He didn't strip for now, keeping the psychological advantage, and slung his bare thigh over Jarvis's dick, both of them gasping at the shock of skin-on-skin contact there. He kissed Jarvis hard again, biting down on his lower lip, and moved his fingers over one stiffening nipple, then pinched it hard, waited, and twisted. Jarvis groaned and writhed beneath him on the bed, and Howard felt himself smirk.

"Yeah, that's what _you_ like," he said, satisfied, letting up and then bearing down again harder, eyes intent on Jarvis's face. Jarvis's mouth was open, eyes wide, and he panted audibly and licked his lips, staring up with the familiar lost look Howard loved to see on his partners' faces, the change from everyday expressions to a mask of bliss, features slack or rigid with ecstasy, showing exactly how what he was doing made them feel.

Howard reached up and eased one finger, then two, into Jarvis's mouth, feeling his tongue flutter along the tips, and said, "Suck, I gotta get you ready and I don't have any slick."

Jarvis took a breath and sucked obediently, swiping his tongue up and down Howard's fingers to get them thoroughly wet, but his eyes changed: he came back to himself a little, and first Howard shut his eyes and let himself enjoy the warm wet pull, whispering "Ohh," before easing them out -- Jarvis caught the side of one finger lightly in his teeth, which made Howard grin -- and said, "What?"

"I've got Vaseline" -- Howard raised his eyebrows -- "I burnt myself a few days ago," Jarvis went on defensively, "making tea. -- Do you want me to get it or not?"

Howard considered and then said "No," watching the effect the word and especially the decisive tone in which he said it had on Jarvis, and deliberately flicked his gaze down to Jarvis's cock and back up to his face. Jarvis got the flush high in his cheeks again, and Howard said "In your pants pocket?" because he guessed it was one of those small round tins people carried around, or stuck in bathroom cabinets for impromptu first aid.

"Yes," Jarvis said, so breathless it was a near gasp. Howard smiled at him and got his fingers under Jarvis's calf to get him to draw his legs up (and exerted considerable self-control not to betray how _fucking distracting_ that was) so he could lean over the edge of the bed, one hand on Jarvis's knee, and fish out the tin. He flicked the lid off and took his time scooping out the jelly with his right thumb and spreading it down over his index and third fingers, past his knuckles, working it until it was warm and transparent, because if nothing else Howard Stark knew how to put on a performance (or maybe even _was_ a performance. But this, right here, now, was true, as true as he knew how to be).

He put his weight on his left hand, leaning over Jarvis, watching his face as Howard slowly started to work him open, one long smooth push. Jarvis's head dropped onto the pillow and his back arched up, his ass barely moving under Howard's hand, and Howard made another very educated guess and drove his fingers in harder before drawing them gently back. At the thrust in, Jarvis made a hoarse sound as if he'd had the wind knocked out of him, so Howard did it again, going in hard, pulling out slow, thrusting in again harder, pulling out more slowly....Jarvis grabbed at the bedding with one hand, reached down to touch himself with the other, and Howard said quickly, "Don't." Jarvis froze. "Not til I say. Got it?" Jarvis didn't say anything, but he let go the blankets and lay unmoving with both of his hands turned palms up, his eyes half-lidded between thrusts and then opening wide every time Howard's hand pushed into him. His mouth was open and he breathed in sharply -- almost a gasp -- in the same rhythm, his hips barely pushing up in reaction. Tiny clear drops of the jelly fell now and then on Howard's hand, throughly melted and body-temperature warm. Jarvis was as ready as Howard had ever seen anyone, and he was getting hard himself, but not hard enough, and the frustration he'd been feeling for the past few minutes about it was starting to make it worse.

He stopped moving, aware for the first time his face and hair were wet with sweat and he was breathing hard, and rolled onto his back, trying to get on top of this somehow. Jarvis was still silent, the two of them lying flat and gulping air. "Okay....okay, now suck me off," Howard said, surprising himself. Jarvis, uncomplaining, instantly sat up, and Howard dragged himself up on his elbows, leaning against the headboard. He spread his legs and Jarvis obligingly bent right down, no hesitation, his weight braced on his elbows on either side of Howard's thighs. Howard cradled the back of Jarvis's head in one hand, and then steadily and relentlessly pushed until Jarvis was swallowing down nearly his whole cock, his breath hot on Howard's skin. Howard still wasn't hard enough to fuck, but he didn't know how long he could last with Jarvis deep-throating him. He took a deep breath. "Don't touch yourself," he said, and Jarvis moaned around his cock, the sound lighting up his nerve endings like fireworks. "Don't rub off on the bed. Don't come. Not til I tell you. -- And do that again, make some noise -- let me know how much you want it, you want it, right?" Jarvis moaned again, tried to speak, muffled, and Howard clenched his hand in Jarvis's hair, pulled his head back. "Yes," Jarvis managed, his voice hoarse, "yes, please, please -- " "Please _what?"_ Howard said, the final piece snapping into place. _"Please,_ sir, sir, please," Jarvis said, with the force of a sob.

Howard felt Jarvis finally let go, the muscles in his shoulders and arms releasing, even his back flattening out. "Okay," he breathed, "okay," and guided Jarvis's mouth back onto his cock, almost tenderly, but all the way in. He kept one hand tight in Jarvis's hair, holding him close, and closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Between the raw emotion and the liquor he was keyed up as hell but it took him longer than usual, although Jarvis seemed just fine with that, keeping up a steady rhythm while staying responsive, sucking and licking. When Howard finally felt himself getting there, he planted one hand on the mattress for leverage and thrust up hard into Jarvis's mouth, fingers caught in Jarvis's hair, and listened, but he didn't hear any gagging or choking so he shut his eyes again and gave in to the rhythm, shoving himself in between those warm slick lips, feeling as helpless as he'd made Jarvis, hearing his own voice chanting _oh, oh,_ oh, _oh_ from somewhere outside himself. He hadn't come in anyone's mouth in way too long, he'd forgotten how it felt to fuck someone's face and be so vulnerable at the same time, although how could you ever forget something that felt like this? Jarvis swallowed him down like a champ, no hesitation or attempts to pull away, and licked Howard clean, sucked up the last drops and kept holding Howard's cock in his mouth as it softened up. Howard tugged on his hair again, then harder, pulling him off, and said harshly, "Do it, jack yourself off, now -- and look at me, keep looking right at me while you do it. Yeah?"

"Yes, yes sir," Jarvis said, and began stroking himself much faster and harder than Howard would have, almost rough, and then there was no _almost_ about it, he was stripping himself off ruthlessly. Howard let go his hair and held his face in both hands, not too tight but not letting him look away, their eyes locked together as Jarvis breathed faster and faster, then groaned long and loud, twisting in Howard's grip but forcing himself to keep looking even -- Howard watched intently -- right when his eyes lost focus and nearly rolled up in his head. He came in three long hot spurts and Howard let him go and Jarvis gasped and cursed against his thigh, shuddering. Howard rubbed his back gently with one hand, and in less than a minute, the entire day of rage and grief caught up with him as well as the sex and the surrender, and he was asleep.

"And a big K-O for the finish," Howard muttered, but he felt a little proud; he could still wring someone out in bed when they needed it.

A little hesitantly, Howard ran his fingers through Jarvis's hair and stroked his cheek, brushed his thumb along those lips. He'd learned all the elegant mechanics of seduction early, but real, felt tenderness made him awkward, so he usually saved it for when his partner was asleep. Slowly and carefully, he moved down until he was lying beside Jarvis, then rolled on his side, facing away. Like he felt it in his sleep, an unspoken signal, Jarvis rolled over too, shifting closer, and rested his forehead against Howard's back, one hand on Howard's shoulder. Howard lay motionless, waiting to make sure Jarvis was really asleep, before he reached out and up to shut off the lamp. Jarvis's left hand slipped from his shoulder to Howard's waist, and Howard reached up with his right hand to hold it in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> This came out of nowhere, during a long fight with writer's block (yes, still, always). I think it was prompted by an epic rewatch of Agent Carter for the SSRC exchange (it doesn't have anything to do with my assignment).
> 
> The epigraph is from a public school George Orwell attended. My headcanon is that Jarvis was a scholarship boy, like Orwell, and possibly went to Eton. We don't know if he was conscripted into the Army, but a general's aide seems like a fairly high position. (As well as good training to be a valet. The US Officer/Enlisted Aide Handbook, prepared by the General Office Management Office, says: "An Aide has to be a secretary, companion, diplomat, bartender, caterer, author, and map reader as well as mindreader. He or she must be able to produce at a minute's notice - timetables, itineraries, the speeds and seating capacity of various aircraft, trains, surface transportation, know seating arrangements at all occasions and all settings. He or she must know the right type of wine for a meal, how many miles it is to Timbuktu, where to get the right information, and occasionally, how the boss’s steak or roast beef ought to be cooked.") It sounds like he began working for Howard after his dishonourable discharge, not that he trained for a career in service post-war (when service jobs were drying up anyway).
> 
> The title refers to the 19th-century British doctrine of allegiance, _Nemo potest exuere patriam:_ No one may leave the country -- no man can refuse allegiance to the Crown.
> 
> I have no actual idea how a hotel tailor's shop in WWII-era Budapest would really work, so I just went with what sounded possible (small repairs, souvenirs, convenience, pretty salesgirl). [This](http://i.imgur.com/dDqap.jpg) is how I picture Shopgirl Ana. I would certainly let her sell me all the silk ties she wanted.
> 
> [Vintage Vaseline tin,](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_WjxBSW9JWRY/TEW7dhUr_2I/AAAAAAAAEC8/EPV7xpgXnMQ/s1600/Vaseline.jpg) about 65mm (2.5") in diameter. Very, ah, handy!
> 
> Music I listened to while writing this: 
> 
> [Peggy Lee, "Big Spender"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x3MamvKeOvg)  
> [Vaughn Monroe & His Orchestra, "When The Lights Go On Again (All Over the World)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNJgG9OKMlw)  
> [Vera Lynn - "When The Lights Go On Again (All Over the World)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WKsYf9-E6FY)  
> [Benny Goodman, "Stompin' at the Savoy"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bW-7XskkS3s) (yeah yeah, wrong Savoy, sue me)


End file.
